


La Valse

by artemisgrace



Series: Hannibal Rambling [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Betrayal, Dancing, Deceit, Friends to Lovers, Internal Conflict, Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sort Of, Tension, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Love, Unhealthy Relationships, Waltzing, partially resolved tension, they smooch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 19:09:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17648297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artemisgrace/pseuds/artemisgrace
Summary: Will's thoughts as he and Hannibal waltz to the sound of the record player in Hannibal's office one evening after a glass of wine.This may just be something he can't come back from . . .





	La Valse

**Author's Note:**

> Had this idea yesterday night and thought I'd roll with it. It takes place when Will was doing his whole double-agent thing. 
> 
> I hope y'all like it :)
> 
> Hit up my Twitter for more fic news: @artemisgraceart

They spin slowly, rhythmically, trading places again and again as soft footsteps carry them about the room, soft but precise, for nothing about this dance between them has ever been without its sharp edges; eyes like knives, accusing and loving in turn, but ever infatuated either way. 

The music of the record player keeps their time, dulcet tones playing a pleasant one-two-three, and it fills Will’s head, carrying him along as though in the gentle current of a stream, but it cannot carry him away, forbidden by the hand that rests warm in his own and the deceptively strong arm that encircles the curve of his waist. Hannibal leads, gliding across the floor, his patent leather shoes creating a soft susurrus as they slide elegantly across the polished wood grain of the floorboards . . . and when Will’s eyes dart to meet Hannibal’s own before quickly departing once again, he can tell that the man has dreamt of this, a reverie to occupy him as he sits witness to the thoroughly mediocre trials and tribulations of his less interesting patients, a fantasy that he keeps beneath his pillow in the night and carries within his pocket throughout the day.

Never too far from his mind.

And if it’s on his mind, it’s on Will’s.

Hannibal’s eyes are heavy upon Will’s cheek as he looks just over the man’s shoulder, his own eyes set upon the middle distance, upon their silent audience of numerous books and pieces of statuary, witnesses to dozens of secrets, to impropriety, death, and deceit. And to the dance. In the periphery of his vision, he cannot help but remark upon the warm, familiar, fond, utterly terrible maroon of Hannibal’s eyes as they caress his face, their velvet touch grating upon his skin. A satin gaze like the scrubbing of steel wool upon vulnerable flesh, all the more unbearable for how pleasant it feels, for Will must not, simply cannot forget to whom those eyes belong. 

Even if they look upon him with such tenderness now . . .

Oh but they are so tender, and the arm that encircles him is full of affection, its weight not oppressive, not confining. If he were to try to break away now, to disentangle their fingers and break their rhythmic step, Hannibal would let him; he would watch with curious eyes, but he wouldn’t try to hold Will in place, wouldn’t hold him close with biting nails and sharp teeth . . . not unless asked. Were Will not constantly reminding himself of what he shouldn’t do, of what Hannibal has caused him to lose, he might just ask.

He might still.

The self-loathing over all this will come for him in the night, later, once the buzz has faded and his borrowed confidence and amorality begin to bleed away into the empty dark, but for now he’s detached from his guilt, from shame, and when he catches his reflection in Hannibal’s eyes, the pseudo-deity that looks back is undeniably appealing . . . seductive. It’s not who Will has known himself to be, but he cannot deny that the creature is indeed him. Could be. Will be, if he’s not careful enough.

And in this moment, part of him doesn’t wish to be careful. There is a peace in this tension: his mind quiets, tranquil, turning in a slow waltz rather than the frantic, discordant clattering and clamoring that fills his skull most days and pollutes his dreams as he sleeps. It would be so . . . sweet to allow himself to fall into the person he becomes when he’s this close to Hannibal. He’s never been more in control of himself than he is now, conflicted though he may be, never more composed than he is circling the room in Hannibal’s embrace, each step taken with such intent, not a moment’s hesitation. 

This is not the point of no return, but Will can see it from here. 

He can see it from here because Hannibal’s hands are warm to the touch, and his eyes are fond as Will gives in and allows himself to look properly into them, the irises the color of coagulated blood, slowly drying to a deep red-brown in the palms of his hands . . . They’ve gotten closer and the record must be nearing its end by now, but the dance doesn’t seem likely to end any time soon, on the contrary, he can feel Hannibal’s breath warm on his face, against his lips, and the one-two-three is hypnotic, but not so hypnotic as the eyes that look at him like a revelation, awed and, beneath it all, hungry. Hannibal is positively ravenous and his hunger seems to spill over, leaking into Will’s own mind, but perhaps that is simply the easier thing to believe, perhaps this hunger was always his own.

All his life he’s been starving, for affection, for comfort, for understanding . . . So has Hannibal, and perhaps that’s where this magnetism was born, in the cold, lonesome quiet of the woods somewhere, a world apart and more similar than they are different, each as alone as the other. 

It’s chilly out on the edge, but it’s not so bad when you have a warm body to cling to.

He’s not sure how long it’s been, but Will becomes vaguely aware that the record has run out and gone quiet but for a soft crackling sound, though the waltz still seems to play in his head, and that they’ve come to a stop, though beneath the current, the dance undoubtedly goes on. It’s not over, not yet, as evidenced by the hands still clasped, by the arm that at some point has tightened around Will’s waist, drawing him closer, by Will’s own hand that has come to rest not on Hannibal’s shoulder, but on the back of his neck, finger’s lost in the soft hair at the back of his head. 

This wasn’t the plan, it isn’t the plan, but the universe has never seemed to smile too kindly upon Will Graham’s plans, so he can’t claim to be shocked that it has come to this . . . but there is a choice still to make and he is desperate not to be the one to make it. He feels almost drunk, though not on the bottle of wine they’ve each had a glass from this evening, but on the attentions of Hannibal Lecter.

He pauses, caught in his own purgatory, a place that he’s getting all too familiar with, that willful state of indecision, and he waits . . . 

And here they stand, upon a precipice of sorts, not the first they’ve come to and almost certainly not the last, both still as they wait for the moment to either occur or pass them by, but it doesn’t, hanging over them like some sort of soft, gauzy veil. He doesn’t mean to lean in, but then he never did mean to when it came to Hannibal, yet he had all the same, leaning into arms that could either crush the shame from him, cast it away as though in an exorcism, or crush his bones to drive the life from his body. It’s almost hard to decide which would be worse, but even as Will considers it, his body breathes the same air as the beast before him, so close that each deep inhale creates another point of contact, of the cages that contain their hearts.

It’s heady and it’s visceral, and it’s everything he never wanted . . . at least before. Now, it’s difficult to say.

Hannibal leans in with him, each a terrible mirror image of the other, and Will allows his eyelids to flutter shut, his last remaining defense against the decision he doesn’t want to make. As their lips brush together, it feels just a bit like dying, painful and freeing, and something that he will grieve for one day. The kiss is a betrayal to all those Will has lost, to those yet alive who still count on him for bringing about their resolution; it’s a betrayal to Hannibal, who still doesn’t know, and to Will himself, precisely because he does know.

If Will is in any part the deity that Hannibal sees within him in moments like these, he must surely be one of the betrayer gods, turning his back, turning from . . . from what, he’s not sure. Perhaps it’s everything, perhaps he’s fleeing or perhaps he’s finding, but either way he’s wrong and the quiet, lost parts of history will remember this. They’ll remember him as a traitor. 

They’ll shudder to speak of him, much the way Alana and Jack do now. Who abandoned who, and when, is a point to be argued, but the result is undeniable: that whatever Will does here, he does for himself. Apart from Hannibal, he really is alone . . . but perhaps Will's doomed to be alone, even in his company.

It’s all wrong, but perhaps that doesn’t matter so much as people would have him believe . . .

There’s no good way to be where Will is now, and no good way out, so he throws himself into this dance, leaning in harder and grasping at Hannibal’s hair, pressing the two of them together as if that will save him, as if the baptism of this line crossed will wash him clean of his despair. The hand around his waist goes from cradling to clutching, fingertips digging in just enough for Will to really feel it, just enough to make him gasp, to open up. To him, Hannibal tastes harsh, metallic & coppery, but Will’s aware that the only blood present is that which he has imagined, and Hannibal’s mouth tastes only of white wine. Nothing red at all.

He wonders what Hannibal tastes as he licks into Will’s mouth; what does he taste beneath the wine? Fear? Desperation? Hatred? Affection? Something more profound?

Hannibal sighs into his mouth and Will just knows that behind his eyelids, the man is envisioning an alter, though whether it is a sacrificial or pseudo-matrimonial in nature, he doesn’t know. Perhaps they’re not different enough to truly distinguish, not when it comes to the two of them. They themselves, after all, are getting harder and harder to distinguish from one another, continuously bleeding into each other like watercolor paints intermingling before soaking into the paper, the changes made establishing themselves as permanent, not to be undone.

As they part, gasping, as close as they can be without tearing each other apart, Will knows . . . he knows that this cannot be undone.

**Author's Note:**

> What'cha thinking?


End file.
